


Always There

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce is a worried dad, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's like when you lose your kid at the store but worse, Kidnapping, outings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25426816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: When Damian goes missing while visiting one of Gotham's art museums, Bruce is stuck waiting on museum security and the GCPD to help him find his son.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Comments: 20
Kudos: 395





	Always There

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in a fit of procrastination late at night, and fueled by my constant need to prove to DC that these two are father and son and love each other very much.

Bruce smiled down at his youngest. Damian stood stock still, attention riveted on the painting in front of him. His foot slid ever so slightly forward as he leaned in almost incrementally to get a better look at something. What had him so transfixed, Bruce wasn’t sure, but he knew the moment the boy had taken in his fill of the piece he’d be happy to tell Bruce all about it if prompted with the right questions. 

He loved hearing about the art and could listen to Damian talk about it for as long as he wanted. It was like Jason talking about a favorite book, or Cass when he could tease ballet information out of her, a gift given to him, his children’s passion on display. It meant they trusted him with the things they loved, and wanted to share that enjoyment. And Bruce would do anything to continue cultivating that love and trust. 

It was fascinating to watch Damian as he picked apart the piece hanging on the wall. To anyone else, the boy might seem disinterested, waiting on a prompt to move forward. But Bruce could tell, through the way his kid’s fingers twitched and the little movements that meant he wanted to scoot forward and mimic the strokes of the artist, years after they had dried. 

“I am ready to move on.” Damian declared after a moment, giving the bright lilies a sharp nod and then moving forward. 

He didn’t stop at every painting, only the ones that really caught his attention, and so as they walked, Bruce peppered him with leading questions about the last. Was it the color? The style? Perhaps the artist? Damian had been coming to this particular exhibit weekly for a month, and still he found new things to talk about and enjoy. 

At this point, when Bruce asked, his son responded easily and brightly, and Bruce wanted to pull him into a hug. He resisted, for fear of making him worried or self aware and embarrassed. Dick could have managed it without causing Damian to lose the ease he’d gained in the hour they’d been there, but Bruce hadn’t found that balance yet. Soon, he hoped. 

Damian stopped next at a statue, and waved at Bruce to hand him his sketchbook. He had been dutifully carrying the bright blue book almost since they’d arrived, handing it over every so often when his son wanted to jot down an idea or make a rough sketch. Damian had declared he was using this trip to "study various styles", and had made true on the statement by jotting down notes and sketches on a variety of different pieces, all done in styles Bruce had never seen Damian attempt. 

He watched as his son crouched, looking up at the figures entwined in a dance and flipped the book open to a clean page. He paused, pencil poised above the paper.

“I will be a minute.” there was a question in the sentence, a sudden hesitation that perhaps Bruce would not be willing to wait as long as it might take for Damian to finish, that maybe he'd wasted too much time through the day already.

“Take all the time you need, we’re not in a hurry.” Bruce smiled.

This earned him a return smile, small, but as bright as any of Dick’s were, and Bruce had to again resist the urge to wrap the boy in a tight hug. 

He was content to watch, and gently shield Damian from the people also milling around. It was a busy day with many families and individuals milling around, and he wouldn’t want anyone accidentally stumbling into the boy as he crouched and sketched. Bruce would have continued the whole time if someone had not tapped him on the shoulder. 

Bruce turned to find a young woman beaming at him. 

“Are you Bruce Wayne?” 

He smiled, pulling on his public mask, “I am.” 

His assumption she was just excited to see someone famous was proved wrong as she engaged him in conversation about the communications branch of Wayne Enterprises. She never said what she did or why she seemed to know so much about communications no matter how much he pried. What she did was pepper him with question after question and create a rather interesting conversation. 

By the time she thanked him and moved away, slipping back into the crowd, Bruce felt a bit like he’d been thrust into an impromptu meeting. He took a moment to collect himself and turned back to the statue and Damian. 

Apparently, his son had moved on without him. Damian wasn’t by the statue any more. Bruce wasn’t too worried, they’d planned a route through the museum before coming in, just in case they got separated, and Damian had a tendency to move on instead of bother Bruce. 

He pressed forward moving quickly from piece to piece eyes only for the green of Damian’s shirt or the flash of light from his shoes. Dick had bought him ones that lit up and even though he’d complained the whole day he’d been gifted them, Damian wore the shoes every chance he got. Bruce was a little worried he'd wear out the lights before the shoes.

A thump caught Bruce’s attention, his head snapping in the direction of the noise. A bright blue book lay on the floor a few feet away. He all but ran to scoop it up, vigilante stickers plastered over various parts of the cover circling Damian’s distinctive handwriting spelling out the word Sketchbook. 

Bruce’s head shot up eyes on the crowd searching for his son. Blue, and white lights flashed, and he wasted no time hurrying over to their source. He came up short seeing a kid, blond hair, and skin far fairer than Damian’s, kicking his feet together in his mom’s arms. Not Damian. 

He next found himself in the security office, an announcement was made requesting Damian find his way up to the front. Bruce hovered over the security guard in charge of the monitor's shoulder as the man promised him they’d do everything they could to locate his kid. 

His heart was racing in his throat, his stomach sick. One hand clutched the sketchbook to his side, the other held his phone as he kept checking for a response to his messages. Damian should have texted back by now or called.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, but none of my men have seen a child with Damian’s description.”

It took everything in him not to turn on his heel, storm out, and return as Batman, ready to tear the building down in order to figure out where Damian was. Even if he did, he had a feeling his son wasn’t in the building any longer. 

The phone buzzed indicating a text had come through. Bruce’s face darkened, and somewhere he heard the head of security gasp at the expression. The picture had come from Damian’s own phone, and was a shot of him, unconscious and tied up in a trunk. The message accompanying the text indicated he’d get a call soon. 

By the time Bruce looked up, the head of security was already on the phone with the police, and Bruce found himself swept up into the investigation, totally unable to get away for longer than a phone call to Alfred, then Dick. 

He explained the details to both, sent copies of the image, and briefly explained their trip so far. He trusted them to do everything he'd do if he could be home. He did the same when Jim Gordon showed up, and tried his best not to bite anyone’s heads off. Bruce couldn’t shake the image of Damian curled up in that trunk.  _ A trunk _ in Gotham’s summer weather. It would be too hot, and a bad sign for how they might treat him going forward. 

All Bruce wanted was to get away from the police, out of the eye of the public and go after Damian himself, but the timing between message and phone call was too short for Bruce to go anywhere. So he just had to stand there, in the security office, a styrofoam cup of over-steeped coffee cupped in his hands as everyone moved around him. 

More often than not, when something like this happened Bruce could take action immediately. He could use every single one of his resources and find his kid quickly. Being surrounded by the police was driving him crazy. It was too slow, too inefficient, filled with too many rules.

Worse, it was Bruce’s fault. If he hadn’t been distracted, if he’d just turned to check on Damian from time to time while he’d been talking to that woman maybe his boy would be safe right now. 

When his phone rang, it was from an unknown number. He bristled at the brief delay he waited for the police to set up the trace, but was soon saying “Yes.” into the receiver. 

The voice that came over the other line was male, confident in what he had to say as he listed out his price for Damian’s safe return and when to expect another call. It was fast, efficient, and nowhere near long enough for a proper trace. 

“I want to hear from him.” Bruce gave his own demand, in a tone brooked no argument, “ _Now_.” 

Silence filled the other end of the line, then after a moment, “Father?”

Something tight in Bruce’s chest eased hearing Damian’s voice. He sounded scared, how much of that was true, and how much was an act Bruce couldn’t be certain of. He had no visual on his son, no real knowledge of who’d taken him, or of what the situation was there. Damian was a convincing actor, Alfred often praised his natural skill, but he was still a boy. He was Bruce’s little boy, and tough as he acted, this was not a situation that would leave one calm. 

“Damian,” his son’s name was a breath on his lips.

“Father, I want to go home. I do not like the woman here, she kicked me, and the--” 

Rage bubbled up in his chest at the thought of anyone hurting him at all. Rage was replaced with worry as his son's voice broke off, the last word becoming distant as if the phone had been yanked away.

“Damian!"

“You heard from him, I’ll call again tomorrow to set up a location, three rings and I hang up and you don’t see him again.” 

With that the line died, and Bruce was left standing there, holding the phone, his grip so tight he heard the plastic crack under the pressure.

“Bruce.” Jim’s voice was gentle.

“Did they get the trace?” 

“Not an exact location,” Jim shook his head, “But we’ve got the security footage locked into the right time now.” 

That at least was something Bruce could do. Together they poured over the footage. Damian sat working on his drawing almost until Bruce finished his conversation. Then, something off camera caught his attention and he stood, his brows furrowed, and moved away, glancing back at Bruce once. 

It was there that they lost him. He fell into a heavy crowd, and even with shoes that lit and flashed, Damian seemed to disappear from every view. It was infuriating all the blind spots this museum had, something Wayne Enterprises would have to help fix --especially since Damian enjoyed the place. 

Bruce had a feeling it was Damian's regular visits that had caused this particular abduction. His son had been visiting with everyone that would take him Dick, Bruce, Duke, and even Tim if he could get his brother to accompany him. It had been all innocent fun, and he’d never gone alone even if he’d declared every time that he was capable. Even that precaution seemed not to have prevented this. If only Bruce could figure out who, and why, they could find him. 

“Did anything Damian said when you talked to him seem out of place?” Jim asked as the video was rewound again. 

Bruce thought it over, Damian hadn’t had time to really give any kind of message, even if he’d prepared one. But, he’d mentioned a woman, and the person Bruce had spoken to on the phone had clearly sounded male. 

“A woman.” He said, “There are two of them, a woman and a man. Stop the tape there!” he said, as the face of the woman he’d been speaking to came into view, “Now go slowly, frame by frame, I want to look for something.” 

The tech gave him an odd look, but followed his directions inching the recording forward. 

Bruce hadn’t noticed it at first, or even when he’d been talking to the woman, but here, with his attention just on her face, he saw it. She kept looking past him. At the time he’d probably pushed it off as interest in the crowd, but here her gaze seemed locked on Damian and one single point off camera. She flicked her hand, in a careless gesture, but frame by frame he could see it was less careless and seemed more like a signal. It wasn’t urgent or even obvious enough for him to have picked up on it, especially not while trying to field all her questions, but it was a clear sign. 

“Her.” he said, “She’s the partner. She distracted me until Damian was gone.” 

They had a clear view of her face, and were easily able to pull recognition on her. After that it was a waiting game as police dug through her life, searching for accomplices, motives, and any place she might hide a kid. 

It was the color of her car that helped them crack it in the end. Red paint on the bumper could just be seen in the picture of Damian Bruce had received, and it matched the color of her car to the letter. Once they had that, it was easy to track the vehicle. 

Six hours after Damian went missing, Bruce found himself standing in front of a relatively normal house with a red car parked out front, trying not to storm in after the officers as they broke in searching for Damian and the kidnappers. 

A minute, then five clicked by. Bruce could hear the all clear, and watched as two people, a man and the woman were hauled out of the building. And still no Damian. Then Jim, standing so close to Bruce he could feel the warmth radiating off the man, got a call. Bruce strained to listen in on it, his heart beating so quickly he thought it would burst. Jim only made noncommittal noises before “Okay, give me a minute.” 

When he hung up, he gave Bruce half a smile. 

“Apparently Damian is refusing to let anyone touch him, except you. He’s very insistent.” 

Bruce didn’t wait for permission, or even Jim to tell him where in the house Damian was. He was moving forward before he even really realized it. His friend was close behind, directing as they pushed inside the terribly ordinary building. 

The stairs to the basement were through a kitchen decorated with strawberry decor of all types. And Bruce had to wonder again,  _ why? _ Why Bruce, why Damian. Why when nothing really pointed to them being desperate?

All his questions were whisked away when he descended the stairs to see Damian, curled in a corner, his posture defensive, but not so much so that Bruce worried he’d lunge at someone. 

“The medic says he’ll be alright, he was sleeping when we found him, and might still be drowsy.” someone said as they passed by. 

Bruce took in the information and moved carefully over to Damian, resisting the urge to run and scoop him up in a motion. Instead, he crouched slowly, eyes catching on two plastic zip ties, cut open and laying on the ground by Damian. 

This close he could see how tense his boy was, and the tight red lines on his wrists from the zip ties. He hadn’t moved, even when Bruce had come in. Opting to wait and make sure this wasn’t some kind of trick. Bruce didn’t blame him, the lighting in the basement was atrocious. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” Bruce said, smiling. 

That was all it took for Damian to fling himself into Bruce’s chest. Arms snaking around in a desperate hug, his hands gripping Bruce’s shirt. 

He returned the hug, scooping Damian closer as he did so, and burying his face in Damian’s hair.

“Hey,” he said again, “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” 

His whole world was that moment, holding Damian in his arms again, feeling his heart beat against his chest, and the press of Damian’s knuckles to his back. He was here, safe, back with Bruce. 

“Baba.” the word was relief. The same relief Bruce felt seeing Damian, his boy had now that they were reunited. 

Bruce’s heart did a strange little flip at that. Damian so rarely called him anything but Father when they were out of uniform. His chest was warm as he pressed a kiss to his son’s head.

"'m tired." Damian mumbled, hands squeezing a bit tighter.

“It’s been a long day.” Bruce agreed, shifting his hold on Damian to lift him, still pressed to his chest, as he stood. He had one arm wrapped around his back, hand cupping his head, and his other looped under Damian’s legs, supporting them, “Why don’t we go home so you can get some proper rest, hmm?” 

Damian turned his head to blink up at him, expression open, “I would like that.” he closed his eyes, and squeezed a little tighter, “Thank you for coming.” 

There was something in that Bruce would have to press him about later. Insecurity, and worry that maybe Bruce might not come. That his going missing was somehow his fault. It was a train of thought Damian was likely to have, even now, and especially if he wasn’t feeling a hundred percent. Bruce would have to make sure all those fears were erased later, when Damian was feeling better. He’d do that, and then continue to remind him every day of just how much he loved him. 

“I promise, I will always come for you, Damian.” 

One of Damian’s hands shifted to press into Bruce’s chest, “Good.” the word was tired, sleepy, and punctuated by a yawn, “I'm glad.” 

“Now, let’s go home.” he said, and started up the stairs. 


End file.
